Vienna and in Memoriam

Roused by the war-note, in review I pass'd
The polities of nations — their intrigues —
Their long-drawn wars and hates — their loves leagues —
But when I came on sad Vienna, last,
Her scroll of annals, timidly unroll'd,
Ran backward from my helpless hands; the woe
Of that one hour that laid our Arthur low,
Made all her chronicle look blank and cold:
Then turn'd I to that Book of memory,
Which is to grieving hearts like the sweet south
To the parch'd meadow, or the dying tree;
Which fills with elegy the craving mouth
Of sorrow — slakes with song her piteous drouth,
And leaves her calm, though weeping silently!